


Hammers Break, Hammers Build

by neversaydie



Series: Baby Makes Three [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Shoots His Problems, Bucky Barnes vs IKEA, Building a Crib, Dad Stucky, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, IKEA Furniture, Kid Fic, M/M, Panic Attacks, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm gonna shoot it."</p><p>"You can't shoot it."</p><p>"It doesn't make any fuckin' sense." Bucky reluctantly holsters his Glock (and they're going to talk about that later because he promised he wouldn't carry in the apartment anymore after the mailman almost lost a finger) and glowers at the sheet of instructions again.</p><p>This is their second run at the crib, the first having ended up with the legs screwed on upside down somehow, and they're both starting to run out of patience.</p><p>[Bucky and Steve try to build a crib, and being made into a weapon isn't easy.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammers Break, Hammers Build

"I'm gonna shoot it."

"You can't shoot it."

"It doesn't make any fuckin' sense." Bucky reluctantly holsters his Glock (and they're going to talk about _that_ later because he promised he wouldn't carry in the apartment anymore after the mailman almost lost a finger) and glowers at the sheet of instructions again.

This is their second run at the crib, the first having ended up with the legs screwed on upside down somehow, and they're both starting to run out of patience.

"I can't understand these fuckin' directions. And I speak goddamn Swedish."

"Since when d'you speak Swedish?" Steve hasn't threatened to shoot any items of furniture yet, but he's fraying just as much as his husband. Bucky's just surprised Steve hasn't punched the thing already, that's how he usually deals when things get difficult.

"Late seventies, maybe? There were flares." He flips the sheet of paper again, squinting at it like that will magically make any of the unreadable instructions come clear. "Y'know, we could've just let Stark hire someone to—"

"I can build my own kid's fuckin' crib." Steve mutters stubbornly, jaw set like the idea of asking for help is a personal insult. It always has been for him, and it takes the edge off Bucky's bad mood to see that something hasn't changed. "Anyway, you're outta your tree if you think letting a Stark near this is anything but plain nuts."

"Shit, yeah." Bucky grimaces, tucking the screwdriver behind his ear like _that's_ a perfectly normal thing to do. "Remember when Howard got his hands on Colonel Phillips' car?"

"Supposed to change the oil, ended up adding some kinda rocket booster to the back. Set that tent on fire."

"Yeah, you're right. Starks are nothing but trouble."

The crib, just to spite them, chooses that moment to collapse entirely and shock them both into silence at the heap of shiny white wood and too-short screws. Bucky lets out a rough laugh in the quiet and looks to Steve, reaching for his gun again.

"Can I shoot it _now_?"

The third run at the crib is no more successful than the second, with Bucky loudly complaining that they _must_ have left some pieces out of this kit and _who the fuck's bright idea was flat pack furniture anyway?_ Steve approaches the construction with all the precision of a mission plan (although, as Bucky helpfully points out, his mission plans usually devolved into 'throw something heavy' or 'punch it until it goes away' at the best of times), trying to lay the pieces out in formation first and then assemble them one step at a time.

That method works well enough, at least until he gets frustrated that a stick of wood just won't behave. He loses control in a flash of anger and accidentally snaps it with his bare hands. And then things shift sideways, and everything is too bright and close and he can't fucking _breathe_.

"Hey, hey Stevie, woah." Bucky drops his screwdriver when he realises what's happening, carefully pries the splintered wood from his husband's hands where it's starting to cut into his palms. He recognises a panic attack when he sees it, even if Steve's don't look anything like his own (Steve loses his breath like he used to when his lungs only half-worked, whereas Bucky's are more checking out of reality and getting stuck in his head). The last eight months have been an exercise in suppressing anxiety, and it doesn't surprise him that Steve's is spilling over the edge now. "Hey, look at me. You're okay, everything's okay."

"I-I can't…" Steve stutters, breathless and terrified. Bucky grabs one of his trembling hands and presses it to his own chest, modelling deep and even breathing like a pro. The attacks always pass, sure, but they never fail to scare the shit out of him just like the asthma used to back home.

"Breathe, baby. Three in five out, remember?" Bucky talks him down slowly, going through familiar motions until Steve is just as upset but at least not turning blue. "You're good at this, sugar. You're doing good."

"I broke it." He wheezes, staring at the snapped wood lying on the carpet beside them like it's a dead body. Whatever's going on behind his eyes, it's not good. Losing control always sparks something like this, but it's usually not a full-blown panic attack. "I-I didn't mean to. But I..."

"It's okay, that doesn't matter. Fuck the crib, we can get another one." Bucky tries, but that's clearly not what's bothering his husband as he shakes his head jerkily, lips parted like he still feels he can't get enough air.

"I can't… I still can't control my own strength. How… H-How am I supposed to hold a baby?"

The naked fear in his eyes breaks Bucky's entire fucking heart. Steve does such a good job of putting up a front that it's all too easy to forget how much damage he's got beneath the surface, and from the look of things this has been brewing for a while.

"Steve—"

"What if I don't watch myself? What if I'm tired or I'm not thinking and I hurt her?" He looks ready to cry, all bravado drained out of him in a way Bucky hasn't seen since he raised his head in an abandoned warehouse and told Steve he remembered him. "What if I hurt her, Buck?"

"You're not gonna hurt her." Bucky tries to radiate calm, because this is something he believes completely, but Steve is totally down the rabbit hole and shakes his head vehemently.

"How d'you know that? I break stuff all the time with this stupid fuckin' body. I'm a blunt instrument. I can't… that's all I'm good for… I can't—"

"Have you ever hurt me?" Bucky cuts him off, firm and not letting him spiral away from the question. "I don't mean when I didn't know you. Since I've been home, have you _ever_ hurt me?"

"No." Steve admits, like it isn't something to be proud of. "But you could—"

"D'you control yourself all the time around me? When you're half asleep or you wake up from a nightmare or we argue, are you telling me you're never _not_ consciously controlling your strength?" Bucky presses further, because Steve has never needed a push to get angry, but getting him to admit something good about himself has always been like pulling teeth.

"No." He admits again, quieter like he hadn't thought about it like that. "But I couldn't hurt you, you'd stop me. She's gonna be so fragile…"

"You're not gonna hurt her." Bucky lowers his voice down to Steve's level, calming the situation as the room gets quiet. "Sweetheart, you're not."

"You don't know that." Steve's jaw works and he looks away, stubborn as ever even when it hurts him.

They lapse into silence, nothing between them but the sound of Steve's still-laboured breathing. After a couple of minutes Bucky pushes himself up off the carpet, dropping a kiss to Steve's forehead on his way to start the coffee pot. This is how things always go after one of them has had an episode, and neither of them are totally sure how the rituals are going to change and fit with a baby in the mix. It's something they can't really plan for, not completely, and they're both more nervous about that than they're trying to let on.

A few more minutes of getting his head together and Steve can get to his feet and follow Bucky into the kitchen, unable to look at the ruined crib anymore. He leans on the kitchen island and watches Bucky make coffee, the familiar rituals of sugar and milk like an exercise, a steady routine rehearsed for decades. That's why they do this after things go sideways, because it feels safe in a way very little does this century.

"I think, sometimes…" Bucky picks up one of the mugs as he starts to speak but pauses, turning to look at Steve and lean back against the counter. "I'm the big bad wolf, nobody lets me forget that. But I think they forget we were _both_ made into weapons. I think I forget that sometimes too."

"I just… I don't know how you think you can guarantee I'm not gonna hurt her." Steve is still shaking, just a little, but talking about it without pretending everything is fine helps. "I'm a hammer, Buck. I'm designed to break things."

"Yeah? Well if you're a hammer then I'm a gun." He meets Steve's eyes and shatters the mug in his metal hand by squeezing it, effortlessly. A demonstration of power, destruction, potential. "You scared I'm gonna hurt her with this thing? 'Cause I am. Hell, sometimes I'm still scared I'm gonna hurt you with it. But I'm not scared of _you_ hurting her, you could never do that."

"How can you be so sure?"

"'Cause I know I'm not gonna hurt her, and you're a better person than I ever was." Bucky crosses the kitchen and kisses him, metal hand cupping the back of Steve's vulnerable neck and squeezing, just a hair. Just a suggestion of restraint. "So if you trust the big bad wolf to do this, to hold your baby, then you've gotta trust yourself. Hammers build stuff too, y'know."

Steve lets out an unsteady sigh and leans in to tip their foreheads together, just touching and breathing each other in. Stoic and stiff-upper-lip and _just fine_ isn't going to work in this situation, he's figuring out now, and if Bucky can manage his fear without swallowing it down like battery acid then maybe he can too. Not that it'll be easy to break the habit of a lifetime, but it maybe he can try.

"You're cleaning up that mug." He mutters once his heartbeat doesn't hurt, and Bucky huffs out a laugh that he feels against his lips.

"Don't talk to me about being dramatic, Captain No 'Chute." Bucky smooths his hand over the nape of Steve's neck, cool and soothing before he pulls away. "It made my point."

"Real eloquent." Steve snorts as Bucky hunts out the dustpan and brush and the coffee pot light clicks off to show it's done. "We're gonna need a new crib."

"Maybe the next one won't have half the fuckin' pieces missing." Bucky grumbles, low and grouchy over the clink of broken ceramic. "I'm gonna blow up IKEA."

"You can't blow up IKEA." That gets an affectionate eye roll as Steve stands up to get the coffee himself. The storm has blown over for now, casual threats of violence and destruction are usually a good sign in this apartment.

"Can I at least shoot the next one if it fucks up?"

"…Maybe."

The next crib only takes four tries to build, and ends up with only one perfectly-round bullet hole in the headboard. They call it a win. Steve turns the hole into a picture of the Very Hungry Caterpillar eating his way through the wood, small and bright and hopeful. It feels significant, turning a sign of destruction into something gentle, and every time he catches sight of it in the hectic months to come Steve reminds himself that he can do this, they both can. That hammers can build and repair as well as destroy.

Bucky, on the other hand, is reminded to never buy anything from IKEA ever again. But then they always did see things differently.


End file.
